


Heroes, Martyrs and Mercenaries

by Ryan Smith (rasmith121)



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasmith121/pseuds/Ryan%20Smith
Summary: "It had been learned by way of many devastated armies that the only effective way to combat a Dragon was with another Dragon.” This is the wisdom that leads Chalceadron and Téqua to a small Drox village, to rid it of its Dragon problem. It’s their first official mission, a rite of passage, their final test before being recognized as full members of the Order of Dragons and Riders.But things go awry; a few of Tequa’s bad habits and her ongoing quest to acquire a familiar get in the way, their past affiliations with the military come back to haunt the pair, and for some reason the village of Rivolarn doesn’t seem to want their help. The line between good and evil will be questioned in a story of intrigue, of mystery and romance, of politics and violence, the timeless process of coming of age. . . and there might even be a little fantasy added for spice. This is a story of Heroes; Martyrs and Mercenaries





	1. Morbid Camp Talk

The distant sound of war peaked and I came up with a knife. I almost heard the screams of dying Orcs and Elves and the low, far-reaching rumble of Dragonfire raging and eggs being dropped from on high, but it might have just been my imagination. The noise died down after a moment and I let my breathing slow to normal. As I lay back on my bedroll I reflexively reached out for Chalceadron’s mind. I got the sensation of flying and concentration, so he must be on a mission. The thread between us was stretched thin. He was somewhere far to the West, one small part of the vast, discourteous war on the horizon. My mind was awake, so giving up on sleep I rolled out of my tent.

Chevor had charms up around the camp, so the light from our fire wouldn’t give away our position. I saw that a few of my fellow soldiers still huddled around it.

“The fighting keeping you awake, Lady Poyre?”

I almost choked at the title. Was that really going to stick? I almost didn’t want it to, but after all I’d done to get it I couldn’t help but smile.

“No, I just couldn’t go another moment without seeing the subtle beauty of your face, Vund.”

He pulled his lips back to properly expose his tusks. It might have been a smile. He really wasn’t bad looking, but Orcs never know how to respond to flirting anyway so I didn’t hold it against him.

“We were just telling stories. Have any to share, ‘Mam?” Asami asked. She was a Drox, but I didn’t hold that against her either. We had saved each other’s asses too many times for that shit to get between us. Fiery Sulos, Kurt  _ died _ for us once.

The other members of the company parted to make room for me near the fire and I sat between Kurt and Asami. “I might have a story or two to share. What am I following?”

Chevor spoke up, “I was telling them about whipping new mages into shape for the Clan War back in Thoorp in the 700’s.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t be hard to beat, then." He punched my arm with a smile. "Hmm, the time I was haunted?”

“Naw,” Chevor said, “I heard that one already, and I don’t believe it.”

“Pfft. Like I would lie." That earned me an eyebrow. "Shut up, Chevor. How about when Chalce and I pissed off a corrupt lord, off in the plains South of Arbot?”

"Arbot? Was he a Human?" Kurt asked, an intrigued expression evident on his own Human face..

". . . No.”

He laughed and handed me the wineskin that was going around.

_ “You should talk about Solovey.” _

It was said into my mind, put there from a distance too far away to be believed by a creature too full of hot air and self-righteousness to be listened to. And it wasn’t something I particularly wanted to talk about in front of certain members of the company.

_ “Shouldn’t you be focusing on your mission?” _

He ignored that jibe. Probably for the best.  _ "You need to talk about it, and who better than them?" _

I almost made an honest suggestion as to who. Too late, I’d already delivered a cut. At best it would be seen as insincere.

But the mental nudge did give me strength. I turned my head to glance at the silhouette of the Drox that sat near his tent, away from the fire and his other comrades. Unlike the others, he had been avoiding my eye since I came out. I took a deep breath, then started.

“Now, I know many of you have heard some rumors about me. How about I tell you a story that. . . well, it might inform you on some of those rumors, or it might not.”

“What’s it about?” Vund asked.

I swept my gaze across all of them. A dozen pairs of eyes from members of my cadre, my company, the eyes of those I commanded into battle, stared back. And it seemed I had finally perked his interest, because for once Strast was one of them. I held his eye. “You'll just have to figure that out for yourself.”

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

This story has its origins in the Potentate’s audience chamber in a wing of the Syndicate Palace, heart of the capital city of Marulinople.

“And Téqua,” the Zularion concluded, “I’m sorry to hear about Merkakch. He will be missed.”

To say the mention of my adopted father mixed poorly with my already raging resentment would be like saying mana mixes poorly with fire. I turned and left the audience chamber without another word. What was said in that council was important, but. . . I’ll explain it later.

In the opinion of most, the island keep of Marulinople, seat of authority over the world of Idroth, exhibits the grandeur befitting its role. Stately white walls emerge from rough cliffs and murky waters like a precious thing, partially enveloped in earth and ocean, ready to be spotted and pulled from the murky waters of the Golden Straits. The polished marble surface is broken only by two immense bridges that connect the island to the Eastern and Western Continents that the Golden Straits divide. Standing proudly above the rest of the island is the Syndicate Palace, with the iconic Tower at its center. It overlooks the sprawl of the capital city and the trade routes that converged on it in regal splendor. It is generally agreed that the lavishness and scale of the island is well deserved.

As Chalceadron and I stormed out of the ornate audience chamber doors and down a lengthy polished-marble passage,  _ I _ saw it as a pompous, pretentious structure, exuberant in the extreme, and, most importantly, far too  _ big _ . For those of you who haven’t seen it, the Syndicate Palace lays across the island in the middle of the Golden Straits like a great white leviathan, beached and mutely pleading for aid in keeping its once-majestic form alive. Because of its size we were not even outside before my anger began to slip away, water dripping through the cracks in my cupped hands.

Now, some of you know Chalce and some of you don’t, but I’ll explain that later too because this is more important. Trust me. As we walked he said,  _ “That was not wise,” _ into my mind.

_ “Do I look wise?” _ I retorted.

_ “You are being prideful. He was just trying to give his condolences, and you know very well that our mentors have the right to entrust anyone they wish with the charge of deciding our test.” _

_ “Yes, they had the  _ right _ , but should they have exercised it? Yet again they shirk their responsibilities!” _

_ “Maybe they thought you would take this more seriously if it was delivered by someone you respect. This is no game, Téqua, our future rests upon the decisions we make in the next few days. Perhaps they sacrificed some of their own pride in the hope that this would make us more likely to succeed?” _

His words and thoughts calmed me further; the resentful responses that flitted across my mind seemed increasingly childish. Still I put more distance between Zularion and I. I was not about to turn back and apologize, ruler of the world or not. If he was as understanding as he always claimed to be then he would let it go.

Chalceadron’s ‘little swords’ made more noise than my steps, clinking against the marble as we made our way down the ornate passage. This was despite the metal boots I wore, which by all means should have been noisy and cumbersome. Because I was rather proficient in moving quietly, they were still cumbersome but they only made undue noise on the hard marble floors of the Palace. The trade off was worth it, the armored boots were strong, with intricate patterns carved into them to fortify their enchantment. I had found the rather heavy things on a lord near Arb. . . well, let’s just say someone rich somehow became rather dead in my presence, and the powerfully enchanted boots caught my eye.

I would have been more agile, and silent as a breath of air in the night if my footwear matched my light cloak, tunic, and leggings. The rest of my garb was an assorted mix of cloth and leather, tailored for utility. But the enchantment on the boots was a ward against magic. Protection against spellcraft that the enchanted steel boots provided me was too good to pass up, such enchantments being rare and difficult to create. So that's why Chalceadron and I  _ clinked _ and  _ clacked _ across the marble, instead of in a more innocuous silence.

My attention flicked to the decorated walls of the corridor. There were expansive portraits. Several were of Marulius, founder of the Syndicate and a major contributor to the Palace’s construction. One was of the warlock Midev, a figure of fables and legend. Also represented were members of the Order of Dragons and Riders, an ancient group made up of bonded pairs of Dragons and mortals. The Order had played an instrumental role in not just the foundation of the Syndicate but nearly every major event in history, the very history that was called to mind in the art around me. To say the group was significant would be like saying the bright Silos in the sky is life-giving. It's true, but people never seem to fathom the depth to which it is true.

Then there were those events themselves; cityscapes from all over Idroth with a blanket of snow during the Great Winter of the Mages, battlefield depictions of the devastating First and Second Demon Invasions, spectacular portraits of the founding of the Dragon Treasury in Thoorp, dramatizations of the first successful expedition into the Tial Mountains and the subsequent discovery of Tialkin. I noticed for the first time a small map that showed Marulinople’s origin, long ago when it was just a port protected by tiny wooden fortifications and neither of the massive stone bridges had been built to connect the island to the Eastern and Western Continents. What a joy that must have been, I thought as I passed through yet another corridor, to have everything centered in one small, easy location.

I felt a jolt. The residual anger from our audience with Zularion melted away as a sense of insignificance and something not unlike awe overcame it. It is not easy to describe what it was exactly that went through me as we passed the arrangement of paintings, but it was powerful. The infamous Elven Coup had three works devoted to it, all small, that unfailingly filled me with emotion. Each had a tall, pale figure who possessed a hint of something sinister. He was one of the most hated mortals in history. His name and title was Arthur Annwn, King of the Fey Races. In the first painting he was depicted on a stage in front of a crowd, with the violent colors and blur adding a sense of confused anger. In the second he was standing on a hill with a flashwand at his shoulder, leading a defense against an army of Dwarves with his mouth wide and screaming. The pointed ears, thin serpentine eyebrows, and long blond hair typical of his race are prominent here. The third showed him in shackles, being escorted by members of the Order of Dragons and Riders.

Every time I passed the trio they reminded me of how fragile and essential honor, morals and freedom are. This one Elf had upended Idroth’s peace and threatened those delicate principles. They needed to be upheld, and in theory that was why Chalceadron and I did what we did. As tedious as the leviathan was to care for, those foundational principles were the only defenses against the blind, fearful subservience, manipulation and corruption that allowed tyrants and dictators to rise; to thrive.

We walked on, through the long, wide marble passages of the Syndicate Palace. Among the sparse foot traffic we spotted Zufli, the Syndicate Archmage, as she shuffled down the hall towards us. She was a Troll like Zularion, tall of stature and with a purple skin that was unlike any other race’s. Her age was unreadable with her back hunched and her staff that doubled as a walking stick. It detracted severely from her towering three meter size. Not only was she a powerful mage, but the parrot familiar that fluttered around her and occasionally settled on her staff betrayed her knowledge of witchcraft as well. That made her odd; few who practiced one magic would be both willing and able to learn the other.

Eccentric to say the least, she was dressed in the only thing I had ever seen her wear; an enchanted purple dress obviously made for an Elven or Human sorceress that she had lengthened with scraps of cloth and an unsteady sewing hand. Blue runes glowed lightly across the fabric, seemingly following the white ones tattooed to her body. She kept a kite shield with a large rend through the middle tied to her forked staff like an emblem. With her long hair bleached white she looked more like a Zairian witch doctor than a proper Archmage, and she was a quintessential example of how deceiving looks can be.

“E’chuta! Ja’ found me!”

Chalceadron and I stopped and looked at each other, and I realized I would have to return the favor he had just paid me. I started in with positive, calming thoughts, “ _ Chalce, don’t- _ ”

“We weren’t looking for you, we’re now just leaving Zularion’s presence.”

I stepped in front of him just as the butt of her staff left the ground. Nothing happened, save a bit of heat as my boots activated and her magic dispersed. She had a habit of turning anyone who would dared take a tone with her into a newt. Thankfully, it wasn’t permanent, nor was it uncounterable; else Chalceadron would be considerably smaller. His muscles tensed as if readying for a fight.

“Ah, would ja’ look at that. . . ja’ been learnin’ eh, Téqua? Good. Ja’ will need it. So whatcho’ two goin’ to see ma’ pretty one for, hmm?”

I answered her. It was safer than giving Chalceadron the chance to snap at her, literally or verbally. “We were expecting him to give. . .”

She was hobbling past us before I even finished a sentence. Over her shoulder she called, “Luck to ja’ then!”

_ “One of these days I’ll. . .”  _ Chalceadron grumbled, _ “Oh how I hate that sorceress.” _

I soothed him with rationality and soft thoughts. Because he had just done the same for me literally moments before, the feeling of closeness was suddenly very apparent and we both grinned. Our ability to balance each other was a great strength, and knowing we would always be there for the other to rely on was a comforting assurance.

We continued on, the monotony of the familiar walk broken. We had to pass through the Forum to reach the exit, and it felt more like we were plunging deeper into the mess of politics, bureaucrats, and nobility than escaping from it. The atmosphere was familiar, but unwanted. There was the occasional wack like Zufli that liked to stir up the whole conglomeration from time to time, and that certainly could have been done without, but even so, it was a time of peace then, far removed from such turbulent an era as the Elven Coup.

I felt it in the air, in the attitudes of the odd passerby more mundane and more representative than Zufli; the Lords, Ladies, Queens, and Kings. History and principles were afterthoughts at most to them, caught up in court gossip and petty squabbles and not-so-petty squabbles. Without peace we would not have been met with derisive sneers for the inconvenience of actually having to step aside for someone.

Without the peace that  _ we _ worked to maintain, the titled folk and the members of the Order of Dragons and Riders would have been thrust together as comrades, united in defending the people we represent and protect instead of being mere acquaintances who deserved an upturned nose or a transfiguration spell when passed in the hall.

Which is why if it were not a time of peace, Chalceadron and I would have been out fighting a tangible threat and not receiving cold stares along the familiar route from Zularion’s private audience hall and a discussion on how to maintain the bloated leviathan that was the Syndicate like so many times before.

But the saving grace was that it wasn’t just boring bureaucratic maintenance. Not this time. Now we were going to be doing something worthwhile, though that significance was more for us than the Syndicate itself. As we finally emerged from the marble maze, it truly hit me that our path was leading us to the culmination of our apprenticeship as Dragon and Rider.

Oh, did I not mention that? The 'we' consisted of myself, Téqua Poyre, Woelf of just over a century and disciple of the Rider Intarl, and the seven-meter-long, winged, fire-breathing lizard that lumbered to my right. The valorous defenders of truth and goodness from before, the Dragons and Riders? The Order that stood for virtue and peace, reaching back into antiquity like no other?

An image sprang into my mind of mortals of all races cloaked in colorful robes, surrounded by the mighty Dragons they were bonded to.

_ That's us. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to get an layout of the world of Idroth and the locations mentioned in this story, I have a world map that I commissioned from the talented Joseph Sheor. You can view it here: https://tinyurl.com/y3jxmf68


	2. On Dragon's Back

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up a minute. You're telling me you're a Dragon Rider?" Vund asked.

"Yes."

He waved his arms around in an attempt to gesture the cadre, and the campfire flared slightly from the disturbed air. “Then why isn't it helping us now?!" 

‘It.’ I didn't deign to respond, for fear of harm to the poor shit. Asami was more gracious. With her calm, even tone she asked, "Vund, would we be able to stay hidden if we had a Dragon following us around?"

"Oh."

“Would it make us a bigger target?”

“Yes.”

“Would it help us accomplish our mission?”

“Probably!” he said, defiant. Even he knew he was wrong.

I let him stew in silence for a moment. It’s a powerful tool, silence, when used effectively. Then I continued.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

There were a few things that needed tending to before Chalceadron and I left Marulinople, so we didn’t set off immediately.

The capital city was more appreciable from the air; the marble structures and the patterned cobble streets were impressive instead of annoying and hindering. But that was soon gone. The Syndicate Palace and the Pearl District fell away to reveal the less savory, further rotted parts of the leviathan. The many additions to the city's curtain wall betrayed its haphazard growth and tumultuous history. Chalceadron angled for the Western shore and started to descend.

The block where Sagm had her shop was as impoverished as ever. From above, we saw that the roads were lined with refuse and feces, and not all of the latter was from the rats that scurried through it. The path that the shop was on was serpentine. A cart or carriage had not graced the narrow path for centuries and likely never would due to the mud, discarded bulletins, and congesting debris that tried to fill the space between the dilapidated structures. When we were close Chalceadron had to close his wings and drop to the ground from above like a diving raptor to fit between the buildings, absorbing the shock of the landing like a cat and making only a faint  _ crunch _ of crushed trash for noise.

Contrasted with the spit and polish of the Syndicate Palace, it felt like home.

The herbal shop was fifty meters away still, and in that distance we passed an alley that branched off to my left. It was not much smaller than the street we were on, but darker, with the eaves of the buildings growing above like the branches of trees to conceal the happenings in shadow. Four pairs of young eyes found me, an assortment of Elves and Drox. The oldest couldn’t have been more than sixty. One of them had been passing something they weren’t supposed to have to another. Suddenly they were all slipping away, and then they were gone.

I did not linger. Giving chase to the kids was a lost cause, they knew the alleys and would skitter away to their hidey-holes like the hundreds of times I had done the same in Murom after lightening a merchant’s stores or cutting a purse or scoring a drop. Maybe they would be able to rise out of it. Not all of Idroth’s problems could be solved in a day, and certainly not by me. I passed on.

There was no sign to advertise to passersby my destination from the hovels to either side; the telling feature for those in the neighborhood who wanted Sagm’s services was the mob of children and their demon that made an almost permanent fixture outside the worn and unremarkable face of the shop. Those who lived in there knew who she was and how to find her, and no one else would venture into such an area.

Some of the kids knew us and smiled. Most didn’t and stared at Chalceadron, a mix of mild fear and curiosity in their eyes. One of them asked something, but was cut off by a foreboding grunt from Sagm’s familiar. His red skin and broad, bare muscles would have been enough to betray his otherworldly heritage, but the folded wings that were pressed against the side of the building in his arm-crossed slouch made it explicitly clear.

As good of a protector as he was, his ability to shepherd the flock was not as absolute as Sagm’s was. After a moment of hesitation the braver children approached Chalceadon. The others realized it was safe, and soon he was swarmed. He sighed into my mind and laid his head down, ignoring the attention like it was the batting playful kittens instead of the harassment of sharp-mouthed little monsters that it was. By the time I pushed through the curtain that passed for a front door Gershom the demon lurched his bulk off the wall after them, suddenly much less sure of himself.

At the end of the gloomy room sat Sagm Ironbrain on a high stool, the better to comfortably reach the counter’s surface. Mismatch shelves, some ornate, some plain, some short as a Dwarf and some tall as an upright Troll, were scattered about the room stocked with what I knew to be faintly enchanted trinkets and miscellanea. They shared the floorspace with barrels and reappropriated fruit stands full of alchemical ingredients that gave the room localized, warring aromas. She was just setting down her quill and stoppering the ink with the kind of slowness only extreme age can bring.

“Uuuuuu,” Sagm hooted, seeming remarkably like an owl with the circular wrinkles around her eyes and the soft melody of her tone, “Téqua. Come. Sit, child. What brings you? How are you coming along?”

She spoke in the goblin tongue, which I spoke less than fluently but turned to out of respect. 

At the same pace as she moved I said, “None too poorly, Sagm. I have found many beings in the Outworld, but I remain cautious in choosing one as a familiar.”

“This is wise. A knowing must be reached with a creature before you can hope to have your will received, and this knowing must be built over time. I took three long years getting to know Gershom before I attempted the ritual. But I was rather excessive in my caution back then, to be honest. Searching further into the Outworld will only lengthen the process, but remember, you need not reach so far. A partner can be found much closer to home.”

“I know, Sagm, but I’m hoping to find certain things in my familiar that are not easy to find here on Idroth. I will have patience.”

“You are the one to decide. Go at your own pace, child."

“What are you drawing, Sagm?”

“Drawing? Oh, aye this here. I’m not drawing, for once. I was-”

She cut off and turned her head slightly, as if she had heard something. I did as well, and we smiled in recognition as a demon and a Dragon contacted us, respectively.

“Pardon, dear.” She took in a deep breath, then, “YOU KIDS STOP POKING CHALCEADRON IN THE EYE OR I’M GOING TO LET HIM EAT YOU!” The ruckus outside died down immediately, then very slowly started to build up again.

“There, that should keep him safe for a while. As I was saying, I’m trying to understand something I found while Kathutel and I traversed the Outworld. It’s long been thought that it is easier to reach out to it during the day, in direct daylight, but I may have found that to be a false. It has interesting implications.”

“What are they?” I asked, accidentally slipping into Elven in my intrigue. The connection between certain aspects of witchcraft and Sulos was an age-long foundation in the understanding of the craft.

“No no, child. Once I test it further I will share with you. There’s no use hampering a young one’s learning with wrong guesswork.”

“Ah, I understand. I am but an egg,” I said, grinning. The Dragon saying was a useful tool for humbling oneself. “Have you heard from Averroes lately?” 

“No, I haven’t. It’s been a long time, I do hope she is doing well. The path she set herself on was a hard one, and frustrating. I hope she has found some measure of peace.” She sighed, her former pupil’s fate obviously heavy on her mind.

“She is strong, and Avoca will guide her well.”

Sagm did not seem convinced. Honestly, I wasn’t either. “How are your witchcraft supplies, child? And are you keeping enough cinnabar dust for Chalceadron?”

“Yes, but I’ll take more. After his last trip to the mating grounds I make sure to keep extra. In five days he got in at least a score of fights. He must have gone through a lunar’s stock of it. But what can you do; Dragons will be Dragons.” She chuckled at that. “As for supplies. . . hmm. I’ll need the average ingredients for healing solutions. As for witchcraft I’ll need 'Ankabût webbing, a sprout or two of lavender, some firewater and bloodgrass stalks from Sulos- actually nevermind about that, I should be able to pick some up myself while I work towards acquiring my familiar. Do you happen to have a Tialox fleece? No? Eh, well a tialgoat skull and some spinal fragments would be useful for a ritual I thought of some time ago, but I won’t be ready to try it until I have that fleece. Do you have any fresh manablooms? Really fresh; I want them for tea, not witchcraft. Heh. Good, I’ll take those. Hm. . . tapinella bulbs, some jarrin root, powdered mammoth tusk, and, of course, I’ll need a vial of milk of the Mirage Cacti.”

She smiled knowingly then. “Was never a good witch or wizard without it. How much jarrin root, child?”

“Only a few pinches. It’s powerful, I can make it last.”

I located the respective bowls, barrels, casks, and jars while I listed off what I needed. Sagm retrieved the more dangerous or controversial ingredients from the back room, along with vials and cloth sacks for everything.

We wrapped and bottled the various plants, powders, bones, and liquids. I estimated the value with a practiced eye and handed her twenty Marul. Depending on how recent trade to the Kahaskil had been it was more than the items were worth by a range of three to ten of the stamped gold pieces. It was hardly a matter with me, and we both knew it. Routinely overpaying her was the most helpful thing I could do. She thanked me with a brightness that seemed to bring her back to her second century and I departed with my bag incrementally heavier and my heart significantly lighter.

Chalceadron rose as I left the shop, spilling children the way a scorpion indifferently brushes off sand. They retreated as I approached and watched as we took to the skies. He was careful to avoid knocking down a shanty with a clumsy brush of his wing or tail, and we were off.

We angled towards the hills to the West of Marulinople, and the e’Loriea estate. The e'Loriea clan was the only native Orcish clan in the region that survived the founding of the Syndicate intact. The otherwise green expanses were mottled, the result of the extensive mining of gold that was traded off Marulinople’s docks. However, the land was not teaming with the precious ore, and many of the mines were exhausted or failed. The abandoned mines made for open areas secluded by hills, and it was where a small contingent of soldiers called Sayf Maslul had set up their training grounds.

There were only about forty of us back then, so the grounds didn't take up much space. A few waves went up at the sight of Chalceadron's orange scales and I waved back. Some of the troops started congregating.

We dropped down in front of the tent with the Sayf Maslul emblem raised above it, and a Dwarf in full armor came out to meet us. By then almost everyone was gathered. Some shouted greetings, others smiled when they caught my eye, and a few scowled and muttered.

Before catching up with any of them, however, there was form to adhere to. "Commander Ishidiah," I said with a salute.

"At ease, Téqua," he said. "It's good to see you again."

"Thank you, Sir. Same here."

"What brings you? Should we talk privately?" he asked, tilting his head to indicate the tent behind him.

I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe it’s best.” He led me in and sat at a table strewn with maps, then offered a chair across from him.

"So, how fares the Order?" he asked. Such a seemingly innocuous question. And the dance began.

"I wish I could tell you more, Commander, but I've only spent a handful of days on Gura Bren in the last decade. Intarl is still shirking his duties, though. Chalceadron and I were just issued our final test to be accepted into the Order. Instead of doing it himself, Intarl gave the right of choosing the test to Zularion."

"Hmm. Well, maybe it's for the best. Now you don't have to talk with him, and once you're initiated you will be free. Either way, it's an official order from the Potentate. That's something."

_ "Much the same as what I said," _ Chalceadron mentioned. He was keeping tabs on the conversation through our link.

"I suppose. Also, Zularion mentioned he had some suspicions about this mission. Apparently there was a plea for help that had been delayed for quite a while, and it wasn't clear how or why. He was happy to have a Dragon and Rider to take care of it."

"What is the mission exactly?"

"There is a small village in the northern Drox territories near the Misericadi Mountains. It's named Rivolarn-"

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

I had been looking into the swirling patterns of the dying campfire as I told the story to my cadre, but I broke off as someone gasped. I knew what it was in response to, but the sleeping soldiers around me woke from the contrast of the sharp intake of breath and the sudden silence. I heard the  _ shink _ of weapons being drawn. I held my breath and noticed fast as that I’d knocked an arrow and drawn the feathers to my chin.

A moment passed.

“What’s up?” Vund asked.

“Shhhh.”

With a look from me, Asami disappeared into the dark. I slipped away in the opposite direction. We had six pairs of sentries out that night, dangerous as the area was. The closest was up a squat maroon-leaved tree, and the silent sets of eyes just managed to catch my movement on the ground before I reached them.

“What’s the commotion in the camp?” Liech asked.

“Nothing, should be a false alarm. Check Erd’s nest and the tuft of grass south of here, if everything’s fine return to your posts.”

“Aye ‘mam.”

I was back at the fire a moment later. It hadn’t been Vund who had gasped first, that had been Strast, but as Strast snapped his mouth shut on my return it hadn’t taken much for the Orc to piece it together. Vund's eyes were wide with realization now, and it was a look mirrored by the rest of them. Suddenly everyone knew where this tale was headed. What had once been a no-name hole in the ground town was now a location known to every civilian and soldier from the Merseas in the West to Moosic and the Kahaskil in the East.

My nerve began to slip then. This wasn't something that should be talked about. But Chalceadron's presence filled my mind.  _ "You need to do this, Tek. They will trust you if you are honest with them." _

I sat down and continued my story.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

"Yes?" Ishidiah had asked. "What about this Drox village?"

"It’s being raided every so often by a Dragon, and we only just found out recently, and Seaular can't confirm the report. With this business between the Drox and the Orcs brewing up, and the usual tension in the Tuvlands, I guess Zularion figured he had enough on his plate already without a raiding Dragon to add to the list. He set this as the final test for us and got back to running the world. You know how it is, always a fire to put out."

"Ahah. Yes, I know that feeling."

"Anyway, how is Sayf Maslul? Any upstart lords to deal with?"

"No, but there's a rumor that 'Firebrand' Jack was in Durya some time ago. We really should track him down and kill him one of these days."

He paused there to lean forward on his elbows before continuing in a quieter tone. "Now, I'm going to guess you didn't stop by to gossip and duel for information. What do you need, Téqua?"

"What? But we were just getting to the good part of the dance where you tell me about what really happened in Anthracite and I promise you the firepower you’ll need in your next assignment.” His glare could rival a gorgon’s. “Well all right, near the end of the Diurfields coup, rumor was that Jem's team was working on a new enchantment for the charges of flashwands."

". . ."

"And I know that by the time the incident at Anthracite was under way, the first series with this new enchantment was in the unit's hands."

A shadow fell over his face. "This may or may not be true. But remind me, why were you not with us during the 'incident' at Anthracite?"

"Because I have obligations to powers higher than you."

I said it calmly and confidently. It was true, but it was far from the whole truth.

He waited for a moment, then, "You want one of these weapons."

"I think being a tattooed member of Sayf Maslul gives me the right to one, yes. And this task ahead of me. . . well, I may have need of such a weapon. I can't do anyone any good if I'm dead, and I've heard loyal contacts with access to the Order are hard to come by."

“Loyal,” he scoffed  under his breath. First his lips formed a tight line, like a player outwitted at  _ chattingra _ . But then he softened. He closed his eyes, a common indicator that he was mentally communicating with someone. I waited politely.

"Well, turns out I don't have any. I couldn't give you one even if I wanted to."

It seemed like a rather abrupt end to our dance. I frowned. "That's a shame."

"Was there anything else you needed? Surprised as you might be, this job has a substantial amount of work to it." He motioned down at the paperwork on his desk.

"Alright, I'll be going. It was nice dancing with you again Ishidiah."

It coaxed a smile from him, so I called it a win.

Outside the Commander’s tent a few of the other Sayf Maslul members were still waiting around for me. More were chatting with Chalceadron and feeding him whole legs off a roasted sheep. Quartermaster Mord was among those waiting for me. He stopped me, smiled, and said, "Follow."

Mord's tent was near the areas set aside for training, and looked like a mash between a king's armory and an ‘Ankabût tailor's workshop. There were weapons on par with my own bow or better, uniform sets of armor forged with concentrations of magic so high the engravings glowed blue, and laying about among this were half-completed tapestries and clothing of silk

Mord himself. . . well, his torso was that of a Drekmuv; red-skinned and mottled as if his flesh was living volcanic rock, but his lower body was that of a massive spider. He was an ‘Ankabût.

He brought me to his tent, his eight legs moving so far out of tandem with my two that it was a bit difficult to keep pace. As he held open the entrance flap for me he said, “Two things. Firstly, you owe the Commander a favor. Secondly, he doesn't know anything about this."

I grinned. “Of course.” He sure knew what he was doing, that Ish.

He moved over to what looked like a wooden wardrobe, four meters across and three tall. When he opened it, rows of flashwands were revealed.

"These are the ones Jem and his team were working on?"

"No, these are mostly standard 'wands. I only have three more left of the new batch, and they are here." He pointed to the end of the row nearest him.

"What the fuck is that?"

"That is the result of many hours of hard work by Jemiah Tomson and his team."

". . . I'll be sure to console him next time I see him."

"Oh, he isn't in need of commiseration." He picked up one of the weapons. It was half the length of the familiar, sturdy, two-meter-long flashwands that it was stored next to. A hundred years previously, in the last war and just around the time I was being born, flashwands could be fired once and then need to be recharged by a mage. As a result, only mages used them. Seeing as more often than not mages could have more of an effect on a battle by using their spells, the weapons were about as useful as a Gurzil forged knife in the hands of an expert archer. Very expensive and completely useless.

Then someone found a way to have the magical devices hold several blazes before they were spent. They became more common, almost replacing bows and crossbows in the armies of the races with access to magic and the advantages it gives 

I noticed that the two remaining examples of the new model that were stored fit oddly into the weapon rack because they were so short, and in the unused space were quivers full of wooden rods.

"They can't be accurate at that length, and without weight to take the kick it is going to be impossible to fire."

"Those are some of the things that were considered when it was being designed. Trust me, it is worth it."

"What are these?" I asked, pointing to the quivers.

"You know how you need a mage or an energy crystal to recharge a spent flashwand?"

"Yes."

"These hold the charges now. They can be refilled en mass, and if you have a few on you just switch them out."

"Wait, so you don't need to put manna into this?” I touched the experimental flashwand. “How is that possible?"

"It still needs manna, but not in the flashwand itself. You put it into this," he hefted one of the wooden cylinders. At my blank face he said, "Let me show you, then you’ll get it."

He pulled three of the rods out. One fit snugly into a groove cut along the length of the weapon. Then he walked outside to the training grounds. The archery targets seemed unreasonably close for practice, but we passed them because they would catch fire if we blazed them. Further down the training grounds was a stone face about six meters high where a mine once had need to cut into the side of a hill. On it were scorch marks and the faded remains of what had been targets, drawn with a natural white chalk that shot through the stone face in veins.

Mord raised the flashwand to his shoulder. He activated it. There was a  _ crack _ like thunder and a beam of light lept from the tip to leave a new scorch mark on the stone.

"You ever had a flashwand fizz out?" he asked, keeping the weapon raised.

"Yes."

"Do you know why they do?"

"It happens when you blaze too quickly. Like, if you were to fire again now," I added hesitantly.

"Yes, but why?"

"I don't know. I studied magical theory, not the tactile magics. You know this."

He caught my tone. "Alright, I'll stop. No need to take offence. I bring it up because these are the questions Jem was pondering about. Turns out, when it was discovered that you could put more than a single blaze in a flashwand, people tried to fire those blazes quickly. Releasing the energy that fast. . . no known enchantments could channel it. The wood shatters, sending splinters and releasing manna everywhere."

_ Pshew! _

Mord fired again. I jumped away at the sound, and he lowered the weapon down with a smirk.

"Now, no one would ever allow these death sticks to be distributed to troops. But then someone made a way for the magic to dissipate safely instead of catastrophically all at once, and that is why they fiz out when you fire them too fast. But Jem's team took that safety enchantment off to see if there were better ways of solving the problem. I don't know the details past that, other than they succeeded."

He raised the flashwand to his shoulder again and suddenly there were streaks of hot energy coming from the tip faster than I could count. I still half expected it to fiz or explode, but it continued just fine for ten long seconds. The noise was like being in a thunderstorm.

When the flashwand stopped, Mord turned to me. It seemed like he was waiting for me to say something, but all I could manage was, “Avor’s ass!"

Mord started training me immediately with the new model flashwand and gave me a modified quiver with four of the charge sticks that powered the thing. A few of the members of Sayf Maslul that had gathered when Chalceadron and I had arrived stopped pampering the big lizard long enough to also share some tips about the quirks of the still fresh enchantments.

Soon an hour had passed. "Guys, I would love to stay longer, but Chalceadron and I have orders from Zularion. We've got to get going." I made sure I had everything and mounted Chalceadron.

"Eh, fine, get going before you steal more of our equipment!" Asami called from those who came to see me off again-

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

"Wait just a minute.” Vund interrupted. “I knew about Mord, he’s been around since Avor was still raising the Alfum Tuves.”

“Hey!”

“But  _ Asami _ was there?" Vund looked to her. She had returned from her rounds with an ‘all clear’ and seated herself at the fire again, and at the inquiry she turned to me.

"Yes. She has been a member of Sayf Maslul longer even than I have. Since the beginning, with Mord and a few others."

"So. . . that's what that armor means. That’s why we couldn’t wear Ish’s." It could have been a question, but it wasn’t.

"To be completely clear, there are things in this story that you can't tell anyone outside this camp. This is just for your ears. Understood?"

Vund continued to look unnerved. It didn't help that my tone couldn't decide if it wanted to be 'I trust you' the way Chalceadron intended this to go or 'I will kill you if you betray me' the way I suddenly felt.

Asami broke the tension by saying, "Yes, Vund. This is the original Sayf Maslul armor. Very few people know about it because it is extremely rare, expensive, and difficult to make. It allows us several advantages in battle, and once people know about those advantages they will start thinking of ways to try and counter it, and that means we as a unit aren’t as strong. The advantages this armor gives us in combat would be much less if they know to expect it."

"So I'm telling you this story,” I said, “because I trust you. All of you."

It was only as the words left my mouth that I realized they were not true. My eyes connected with Mord, then Strast. Mord hadn’t missed my little white lie, and he shrugged to indicate that, yeah, it might have been necessary. But Strast showed no sign as I met his eye that I should or shouldn’t continue, and that was more disconcerting than any potential mutiny.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

Chalceadron and I set off East, towards the Drox territories of Darkwood

Although flying on Dragon's back is faster than anything short of teleportation, it does take time. The views occupied me first and foremost, as was usually the case. I found that flying long-distance could get dreadfully boring, or it could be quite beautiful and engaging.

Our journey started as the latter. We passed over the capital city again and the map I’d seen earlier of Marulinople as little more than an ancient port came to mind. Some of the same landmarks were still noticeable in the sprawl of buildings below, and it sparked my memories of history lessons at Bren University. The rise of the great Human tyrant Matthew Syager, the rebellion Marulius started against him and the subsequent creation of the Syndicate itself; all events that had shaped and been shaped by the city that was disappearing beneath us.

Looking ahead, everything was flat. Uninteresting. There were vast plains on our right to the Southeast and the Karodan Ocean on our left to the Northwest. Flat land, flat sea, almost straight coast between the two. No trees, a few farms to supply Marulinople with food, and rarely a lone village. The day was even clear of clouds, which could be majestic when seen from dragonback. It ruined my most effective method of passing time.

I considered performing a bit of witchcraft to combat my apathy and lethargy. There was a Kambromuv in the Outworld that I had been communing with for a few years, and I felt that any spare time should go towards making progress with him as a possible familiar. But Dragonback was not the place for my chosen arcane art; rituals required a particular state of mind. Instead I checked my weapons.

All of the Riders had a long, heavy hooded cloak, weatherproofed to keep us warm and dry on Dragonback. It matched our dragon, so mine was a bright orange, and the garment had become something of an icon of the Order. As such, it acted as my uniform for ceremonies and celebrations.

I kept it in my pack, reserved for those occasions when it was required, and instead favored a grey cloak that Mord had spun for me some years before. It matched the traditional cloak's length and water resistance, but lacked the thickness. When in the air I supplemented it with a heavy riding coat, and when on the ground it was not as unbearably hot, and much less conspicuous compared to my Rider’s Cloak. The cowl could completely obscure my face if needed. The real advantages were the small sheaths and pockets strewn about it; excellent places to keep nasty surprises hidden in case I needed them.

I rifled through my cloak ‘o secrets. My various pointy, bladed things, a shortwand on my hip that was small enough to be inconspicuous; I took out all my surprises to make sure they were in working order.

It seemed a good time to add to those surprises. The insides of my cloak held my emergency arrows. Five were lined on each side. I took out the ones on my left side to see if my new weapon would fit in their place. A normal sized flashwand would not have had a chance, but due to its compact size it was no lengthier than my arrows. It was significantly wider around, so I rigged the cloth ties to the quiver that Mord had given me with the charge sticks. I put the flashwand in the quiver and I fastened the charge sticks to the inside of my cloak individually, the same way I had the emergency arrows.

To be thorough, I sharpened my boot knife and the shortsword strapped to the outside of my quiver. I was shit with them, but they were good, light steel and my only defense against someone at close range.

When I was done I shrugged my bow off my left shoulder in a practiced movement that put the grip into my hand. Unless maintaining it, I always kept it strung and ready for use at a moment’s notice. I unstrung and inspected it, and it took only a few seconds to confirm that the weapon was as flawless as ever. Half a century of constant practice and hard use and the slender longbow was still perfect, having required very little maintenance in the interim. Compared to the economical, efficient flashwand, my bow was a testament to elegance over raw power. Indeed, it was the finest craftsmanship money and influence could acquire.

Being Elven, it was practically a rule to have some sort of magical properties (the exception to that rule being me). There were several enchantments on my bow. I only depended on one, because it was necessary. A spell protected my arrows from direct magical interference, so an enemy spellcaster could not simply deflect or turn them around in mid air and send them back at me. I would not be able to stop them in such a situation, so it was important and the spell preventing such a situation was strong.

The cumulative enchantments for keeping the arrow flying true in high winds and similar spells that I didn’t rely on were powerful enough that even I might have been able to sense them, but there was a passive spell from the illusion school that subdued the traces of the spells themselves. That way it did not alert every mage in a mile radius to its potent magical presence. Through my link with Chalceadron and his more acute sense of the arcane I knew that it gave off no more sign of arcane energies than I did. That is; none.

The wonders of the highest grade modern magical engineering.

It struck me while checking my weapons that I may soon be using them in an act other than self-defense again, and for our first real mission as Dragon and Rider. I broached the subject with Chalceadron.

_ “Chalce,”  _ I thought, as mind-to-mind communication was more natural for us and vocally speaking was impossible through the howling wind anyway,  _ “any thoughts on our task?” _

He was focused on flying. It was sort of like long distance running to a bipedal; he had to put at least some minimal amount of concentration into the movements and due to that he seldom became bored and restless like I did.

And he loved flying. That might have something to do with it too.

I felt a mental huff as he grudgingly accepted 'Chalce,’ his unwilling nickname. One of the Sayf Maslul members had given it to him, or was it someone from Gura Bren? Either way, it had stuck.

_ “We are going to have to kill this Solovey. We’ll have to confirm his crimes, of course, but if he did what Zularion said it will be unavoidable. He mentioned this Dragon is young, but younger than me? When it comes to it, do you think I can take him?” _

I almost laughed at the absurdity of his sudden self-questioning, but I sensed his seriousness so I proceeded softly.  _ “Of course you can. Who is the one always getting us kicked out of the dragonhold for fighting? And all the time we spend with the wild dragons, the battles you get into there? They were fierce, I would be very surprised if none of the beatings you've handed out ever killed.” _

_ “But this is not a hatchling scuffle over a mate or an intrusion on hunting grounds. It is not sudden and instinctive. It is not a fight for defence or food or water or sex or shelter, where losing means a beating or a growling stomach or a night out in the cold. In a fight like that you  _ might _ die, but if you are outmatched you can suffer defeat and still continue. We are going into a battle. The point of the fight is just to fight. To kill or be killed. It feels unnatural to go  _ toward _ such a situation. In fact the situation itself feels unnatural. Animals don't track each other down to kill for the sake of killing. We might track to eat, but only mortals kill like this.” _

I reminded myself that Dragons were extremely animalistic and in tune with their instincts, and if something was 'unnatural' that meant it went against the primal, ancestral knowledge that they believed instinct was founded on.

_ “Animals track each other down when they are hunting.” _

_ “Bah. We track  _ prey _ down when we are hunting. The purpose is to eat, to stay alive. And it is instinctive for prey flee, or hide, or otherwise attempt to avoid being hunted. Whoever is better, the hunter or the hunted, lives. Here there is no point, no purpose." _

_ “That is it though: there is a point. Solovey has been killing people. We need to stop him.” _

He snorted dismissively. Smoke trailed past me on the wind. “ _ Killing. He killed because he was hungry. That area, so close to the Kahaskil Desert, probably has no other food than mortals. His choices were to either start feeding on the villagefolk or leave and try to carve out a territory of his own. Considering how you land creatures are one of our natural preys, he is not in the wrong. If I did not get three square meals a week at Bren I would have had to make a similar decision.” _

His views on the mission unsettled me, but my conviction in the cause of peacekeeping did not falter. True, Dragons might get away with a few missing people every now and then. There was some moral grey area. But prolonged culling of a village clearly violated morality, let alone Syndicate laws. I moved on without comment, though, sensing Chalceadron had a strong opinion. “ _ I'll be there to help, so it won't be much of a fight. Zularion knew that, too, or else he would not have sent us to do this. No, the test is more about  _ how _ we handle the situation.” _

_ “Aye, you are right. We need to keep alert.” _

I sent him an agreeable thought, which was the equivalent of a nod.

After restringing my longbow I admired it for a few more minutes and slung it back over my left shoulder. It had been made for me as a Dragon Rider. I never would have thought I would own such a beautiful, masterful weapon before Chalceadron had hatched for me. Aside from the creation of it physically, the complexity of the spells woven into the wood and string made it truly spectacular.

The memories of long hours spent studying the arcane laws and subtleties that allowed such powerful enchantments aroused in me a familiar feeling of deprivation. For the millionth time I wished I could do real magic. Not everyone who altered the world around them did so in as untimely and complicated a manner as witchcraft. The effects that I could produce with a lengthy, difficult ritual- and much more besides -were just an incantation or a hand gesture away. But only for those gifted with magical ability.

My dependence on the semi- and pseudo-magical ingredients, objects and implements of witchcraft was a handicap very few Elves had to deal with, if any. Although witchcraft was an emotionally fulfilling art on its own, it was only a substitute for the true spellcasting ability that I was owed by birthright. I made a point not to express my discontent at being the only Elf in a thousand leagues to not have a sense of the arcane because Chalceadron, while understanding of my position, had previously become fed up with my complaining. I remembered the outburst, and I really could not blame him.

It was getting late, so we stopped at the closest town. We startled a few people with our landing just outside the cluster of buildings, but that was to be expected. After all, the reason we were being sent off to some village on the outskirts of the Drox territories was because it was being terrorized by a hungry Dragon. People usually become frightened when things that could eat them were nearby. Actually, as Chalceadron had implied, most creatures possessing a brain tend to do that.

Chalceadron must have picked up on my stray thoughts of eating because he asked,  _ “Can you buy a meal for me? I would rather sleep than hunt tonight.” _

“ _ Sure. You know, Chalce, I wonder how much I would get at the circus.” _

_ “For what?” _

_ “Well, I am certainly the only mortal with a domesticated Dragon. How much would they pay for-” _

He cut me off with a growl, which overwhelmed the sound of my answering giggle. Two Humans who had stopped to marvel at us jumped about a foot at the sound, then hurried away. I gave a good rub to Chalceadron’s neck scales in apology. My bow and quiver were on my back, as always, and simply being clothed kept me well armed. I took my bag from his riding gear, then loosened the gear as well so he could be rid of it when he slept. He took off.

There were only three dozen or so buildings. One stood out, an establishment with large windows taking up most of the surface of the walls, from which poured light and the blunted sound of revelry into the descending night. Above the door a sign hung with nothing painted on it. I thought it interesting that I could see right through the structure to the opposite window and out into the village. I headed inside.

The evening was only just starting, and the place was still mostly empty.“What’s this place called?” I asked the first person to look at me. He was a Orc sitting along the bar to my right and the first thing I noticed was that he had a very defined lower jaw supporting two thick, obtuse tusks.

“Hin’s Glass.”

“Oh.” That made sense. “Are you a farmer?”

“No.”

“Can you point me to someone who has cattle for sale?”

“Not many here yet. Sulos’ only just going down.” He looked around, nodded towards a group of Humans to my left, then went back to quietly drinking.

I made the purchase quickly from one big human who said he had a bull to sell.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

"I'm sorry, how many days is this before you reach Rivolarn?" Strast interrupted.

I looked him in the eye. My first impression was that he was being an asshole. At least, that seemed like the tone he had.

But as he dropped his eyes, I wondered what had truly prompted his audacity.

"Three days," I answered. "Are you trying to imply that I should skip along to the good part where you try and kill me?"

He held my eye this time. Nostrils flared slightly, and his jaw clenched. "No, 'mam, as I remember it I saved your life. But maybe it would be helpful if I mention what was happening in Rivolarn before you arrived?"

"Oh. Well, actually aye. That is a good idea. But it will make me look like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner." I remembered the other soldiers under my command who were watching with intent. Chevor caught my eye, and I laughed a gesture at him. "By all means, it will be more likely this one will believe the story if it's not just me telling it."

He cleared his throat, then started.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

Alright, so. . . you all have likely heard of Solovey. Téqua is going to address all that, but I should explain how I was involved. To be clear, it’s not pretty.

I arrived in Rivolarn four months before Téqua and Chalceadron. My written orders were threefold; garrison the town in case of Dragon attack, keep Seaular’s peace, and wait until members of the Fey Corps came to handle the situation.

My written orders were bullshit. My father is Lord Ernst Bloodfrond, of-

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

“Oh Avor not this again.”

“Am I the one telling the story?

“Sorry, it’s just. . . so fucking old.”

He gave me a look that almost made me feel regret. Almost.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

My father is Lord Ernst Bloodfrond. I was set on the path that led me to me sitting here with all of you now when a runner ran through the castle gates. I didn’t think much of it and continued with the drill that Cassel was teaching me. Uh, Cassel was the armorer, but he was also the one who trained me to fight.

Anyway an hour later a page was sent saying my father wanted to see me. I felt a bit irked, I remember, because we had fought before about the training I was receiving. But the page told me to attend to him in his council chambers and I did as I was bid.

I realized that this wasn’t a matter to be dealt with in the private study when I arrived and saw a guard at the door. They made my presence know before I even got to the door, and entered to see the council was not fully assembled. The Vizier Azam was there, as well as Sid Curwa, my father’s field general. He motioned me to a seat to his right, next to Curwa. I sat.

“You sent for me?”

“Aye. I need you to do something. You’ve heard of the lizard that’s been skirting around the mountains to the North?” I nodded. He picked a scroll up from the table and handed it to Sid, who handed it to me. The seal was a familiar maple leaf. “Don’t open it. Not yet. These are your orders. You’ll have a company of fifty, and I was instructed very specifically what is to be done.”

I looked down at the scroll. A company? Of soldiers? I had never commanded before. To kill a Dragon? “I won’t fail you,” I said.

Father smiled a little. “Good. Now, you are not to follow those orders.”

I furrowed my eyebrows in puzzlement. “But you just said. . .”

“I know what I said. Those are not your orders. Your orders are to keep word of this Dragon from spreading. No one can talk of the things he does to Rivolarn. But you aren’t to lift a finger against him. Keep the people there, keep them from fleeing, keep them from even mentioning his existence. It’s not something that can be done forever, but keep Rivolarn in some semblance of peace and normalcy for as long as you can.”

“Father, what is this? Why aren’t we attacking the Dragon?”

He face turned to ice. “Are you implying that this isn’t the right course of action?”

“No Father. I only meant-”

“Enough. I had thought you wanted to show that you are a Drox. You are grown up now, it’s time you’ve had a taste of responsibility. Now, you have your orders,” he looked at the scroll, “and you will remember your  _ orders. _ Understood?


	3. Outworld

Strast stopped speaking then, his voice cracking. I waited for him to continue but he looked up across the fire at me and I felt a tendril of thought brush against my mind.

_ “I’m done. You go again. Sorry for interrupting.” _

With that, he got up and left.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

Uh. . . he was probably getting sleepy. So, where was I? Oh yeah.

I was in the Glass inn on my way to Rivolarn. I was hungry, and Chalceadron was hungry, having been flying for the better part of a day. The farmers I was trying to buy cattle from were a bit bristly, but when I mentioned it was for the Dragon that word was starting to circulate about they suddenly became very polite. Then I found a seat and ordered the house special for myself: a stew and coarse rye bread. When the Dwarven barmaid came with my food I took a stab at conversation, just on the principle that Elves and Dwarves should make more of an effort to get along.

“You know, I grew up in a town not much bigger than this. It can be hard. How are you faring here?”

She might or might not have known about me being a Dragon Rider at the point. It’s not something I try to throw around, but when it gets noticed it gets noticed.

“It has been hard lately, m’lady. My folks, they’ve been talkin’ about maybe movin’. The road ‘tween Orlos and Marulinople barely has any people on it since Seaular’s trade cavortin’ started. He can just fiddle around however he wants, and ‘aint no one thinks to look at how his fooling and ploying hurts us.”

“I’m coming from Marulinople now, and believe me Zularion isn’t happy with the embargo either. He wants to get things flowing again, but the Orc guilds keep demanding better prices, and a lot of the clans are taxing them higher for it, and the Drox are freezing their trade to pressure the Orcs so this infighting can get dealt with quickly. It isn’t helping anyone in the short run, so it should all blow over soon enough. The Orcs can afford to squabble until Avor returns to judge us all, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to take the loss of trade lightly."

“I don’t know, ‘mam. He’s been at this for a while now. I hope the Potentate does find a way to keep the trade up again, and permanent this time, but we just doesn’t see it here.” There was an awkward pause, but she tried to smooth it over by changing the subject. “So. . . er, I hear two Elven boys from Lion Hawk got a ley line car higher off the ground than anyone ever has. Caused quite a stir in the papers. Magic, it’s changing the world.”

“Aye. Magic.”

It obviously didn’t have the effect she wanted, and the place was filling up quickly now as more of the farmers left their fields and shopkeepers locked their shops. She left to attend to others.

I spent an hour enjoying the bread, stew and soft wine and watching the people around me. Just about everyone was dipping into their mugs and steins instead of drinking from them. I found it odd.

There were a few goblins and they all seemed to be poor farmers, but that was not surprising. They were quiet and kept to themselves. There was most likely a poorer tavern in town that they frequented, or else they would have been the easy majority. Based on their loud conversations, the Humans and Orcs were mostly farmers drinking and making noise after a hard day's toil in the soil, but some were tradesmen from town and there were a few Elves, Dwarves, and Drox mixed in. In accordance with what the Dwarf had said, there seemed to be no migrant traders. However, two Trolls, both deep purple, towered over everyone by the bar because they did not have room to crouch like they were prone to do. They were travelers passing through, which I expertly deduced from the fact that they were recounting stories of their travels and said they were just passing through.

The races that did not have any representation interested me. I didn't see any Tialmans or 'Ankabût, but that made sense; a monk or an advisor would not likely be seen at a tavern. Mer were probably rare as it was at least a league to the nearest sizable body of water. A Dragon would neither fit nor be welcome in the room, and a Hirrasma, a Drekmuv, or a Drekman would not have been served.

At one point the big Human that I had bought a cow from staggered toward my table looking intent. Without glancing his way I drew a dagger out of nowhere (nowhere in this instance being the lining of my tunic under my left arm). I casually tossed it, spinning, into the air, caught it, and used it to slice more of my bread. He got the message. However, I got the lingering aftertaste of a potent rotflesh spell on my bread. I wound up throwing away the three slices that had touched the enchanted cutlery, just to be safe.

The price we pay for theatrics.

I tended to eye the group that the big Human was with after that, just basic threat monitoring, but my attention drifted back to the proportions of races. Because we were in Orc country, they were many and varied. Some of the horns displayed in the crowd were massive, curling things, others were gently spireling points.

After having my fill of food, wine, knife-juggling, and people-watching I paid for the meal and retreated to the room for rent. I had been careful with the wine as I had precious few sobering charms, and alcohol reacted badly with my medicine. In my room I began my nightly routine by pouring two drops of blue, ethereal liquid into water and drinking it. To help with the state of mind.

From my pack I removed a few items and arranged them for a basic renewal ritual, including fine Orcish candles, incense, crystals, and a mirror which I laid on the floor.

When I could feel the magical essence beginning to build, like frigid ice-melt pooling behind a damn in my mind, I asked,  _ “Chalceadron, are you ready?” _

I caught a brief taste of raw beef, not altogether unpleasant on a Dragon’s tongue, before he thought, _ “Aye.” _

A carved wooden charm around my neck was imbued with a curse that could silence enemy spellcasters. It was one of the few weapons I possessed that could counter hostile wizards and sorcerers, besides the protection my enchanted boots gave me. I lacked the ability to cast even a shielding spell, arguably the easiest of all magic. Unfortunately, for such a potent effect to be sustained and ready to use with witchcraft it required daily maintenance. I lit the Orcish candles, set the crystals in a circle on the mirror, took the delicate wooden figurine of a Tialox from my neck, placed it at the center of the circle. Lastly I sat, legs intertwined, in front of the arrangement.

I took a breath and pictured a smooth marble monolith. I took another slow breath and relaxed, placing my hands on my knees and letting my body become like the pillar of white. Motionless, but without tension or stress. Just there. Another breath and I was the monolith, without a care for anything. Completely serene. Ignorant and uncaring of the petty troubles of life, enduring and everlasting and solid.

My perception of time narrowed from the future plans of Chalceadron and I to the few weeks the current mission was liable to take to the days that pass so pleasantly when traveling to the hours I would sleep in the coming night to the seconds between each deep breath to nothing.

Just breathing. Air entering and then exiting my lungs. Each event an island of existence with nothing between them. Each heartbeat a flare of life on an otherwise blank canvas of existence. No thought, no feeling, or motion or time or context or anything.

Nothing.

In this vacuum, my mind, my collective being that some termed 'the soul' and others termed ‘the essence,’ seeped out of me like water trickling from a cracked jar, to puddle in the area immediately around me. Without thought or sense, because 'thought' and 'sense' as they are usually understood do not take place in such a state, I found a Sulos and a halo of stars adrift on a sea of light, and a tether and a thread. Everything was natural and I did not fear how thin the thread was to the body supplying it life. Nor did I fear the might behind the tether that could tear me away from the real and leave me here in the land where meaning was found in the being instead of the simple presence, because somehow I knew that it was Chalceadron behind that tether and that he would never harm me. I felt for the loosening bonds of energy around the Sulos and pushed them back into place with the power from the stars, strengthening them where they were fraying and replacing those that had disintegrated. Then I followed the thread back to myself.

All that effort and all I had actually done was repair the enchantment on my charm. It seemed like moments because when doing a ritual time is kind of. . . bent, but it had actually taken an obscenely long time; ten minutes when a mage could have done the same thing with a wave of their hand or an incantation.

I felt myself slipping back into the physical world, but I still had more to do. Exciting things, not just fixing an enchantment. I pictured a spot just outside a fearsome black fortress. I fixed it in my mind, trying to experience it again with multiple senses.

It was hidden from the decrepit stronghold by a line of thin, tangled vines sprouting a few oblong orchids among broad maroon leaves. The sheer face of a mountain would be behind me, away from the foreboding castle wall. There was heat, almost unbearable heat, and the oppressive air would reek of sulfur and the sickly sweet aroma of the alien plant life.

The terrain was rough, boulders and spires of porous black stone dominated the landscape. Even relatively flat areas rolled and cracked, with fissures ten meters long, a meter wide and unknowably deep, glowing faintly at the bottom. The uneven ground was parched and pockmarked, sandy patches here and there on top of bumpy black flows that had strewn forth and solidified when the vents and fissures erupted with hot liquid stone. This was broken with little sprouts of twisted black and orange plants shooting up in place of grass in the hope of living long enough to reproduce before the next layer of hot stone enveloped them. Above, the sky was overcast with noxious clouds that glowed a bright red when it was ‘day’, or at least the Outworld’s equivalent, and at ‘night’ they shone a dull maroon from the reflected light of vast, distant molten lakes. There was never enough natural light for a figure to cast a distinct shadow, but it never fell into pitch blackness either.

I opened my eyes and there I was, among those features. All of my senses hit me in a rush, as with the completion of every ritual. My skin crawled from the slightest touch of my clothing, and the weight of my body pressing down on a soft patch of sand where I sat felt like enough force to bruise me. The heat seemed like it would make my face and hands burst into flame in seconds, and I had to withhold a scream.

It took a moment for my body to return to normal. My ass was fine, my skin unburnt despite the very noticeable heat. Then I rose and made for the nearest crack in the wall of the dilapidated fortress. Exploring the Outworld was an exciting experience that I had been doing for decades. Over several months I had been returning here and observing the beings that inhabited the structure. They were a mix of Drekmuv and Kambromuv, two distinct specimens. Drekmuv were smaller and smarter, about the same size as Elves on Idroth and near the same mental capacity. They were able to use complex tools, plan for and build large structures and devise strategies in battle. Kambromuv were larger, maybe three meters tall on average, walked upright, had arms and legs and all that, but they also had wings sprouting from their back like a Dragon would and horns like an Orc. The demon Gershom that shepherded and protected the children outside Sagm’s herbal shop was one such Kambromuv. They were intelligent, not often as calculating as Drekmuv, and more prone to impulse. I was well on my way to making one my familiar.

That was proving difficult, but not impossible. I found the tower I was looking for without difficulty and slipped through a door, one crudely woven of the pitted vines that were able to grow in such harsh conditions. Although thoroughly foreign, Drekmuv and Kambromuv composed the closest thing to a ‘society’ the Outworld had. Witches, who beguiled them into battles of will and made them into familiars bound by their very essence, were a very real part of what little culture they sustained. If any of them caught me they would take great pleasure in roasting me in the Outworld’s unholy fires.

I enjoyed the challenge.

Inside, the constant dim light of the clouds faded to true blackness. With the exceptions of towers, everything seemed to be made from crudely shaping the abundant liquid rock and letting it cool and solidify. This allowed for many defects, such as cracks and even major crevasses in the floors and walls. Some of these connected with active vents that provided some light from below, but they were few and far between and only memory allowed any sort of purposeful navigation. Because of the jagged walls and lack of light, as a group of the demons came up the passage I was in I easily melded with a crease in the rough stone. They passed right by me.

The Kambromuv that I had communed with would be in the fortress's barracks, where all of the fierce beings slept. They lay sprawled all over the floor, and by the light of a single magical lantern that hung in the middle of the room I saw the recognizable red bulk, off to the near left corner where he always slept.

The demons’ skins came in different shades, but all of them had flesh mottled like the melting stone their world was made of. Grey on purple; black on red. Some had black hair, some had shades of red and brown, and a few were shot with streaks of yellow, green, or purple. There was variety among them; thin, sinister lips not unlike my own Elven ones and fat lips drawn down into a frown reminiscent of the drunken Orc from hours before, but all had angular cheekbones that betrayed their haughtiness even while they slept. Their combination of sharp downturned noses and wide nostrils made them seem squashed, either by their natural facial structure or long decades of constant fighting or both.

I retreated out of sight again once I knew where he was. With a bit of concentration, I cast my mind out to brush his.

_ “Come.” _

There was no response in words, but a flash of images and emotions added up to,  _ “I won’t take any enjoyment from it.” _

Cheeky little demon that he was, he was good at lying.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

I’ll. . . skip over what happened next, if you don’t mind. It’s not really anyone’s business. When I returned to the ‘real’ world I regained my senses quickly. Chills coursed over every inch of my body as I was overwhelmed with the ability to feel again. The residual sensations of my body were enhanced, as well as every new one. Subtle things like the minute movements of air and the barely perceptible heat of the candles contrasted against the inferno I had just left. They were like nature’s caresses. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise, then my arms, my lower back. It was helped along by the freezing, fizzing magic from my potion. With no conventional release through a spell it seeped down through me from the dam in my brain, saturating my body with power that could not be used and setting my already frayed nerves alight. My calves prickled, then shuddered. My hands twitched. Euphoric.

But coarse things relatively felt like claws. I measured how hard my body pushed against the floor and was scratched by the fabric cocooning my body. My shirt ruffled slightly and in an instant everything was dashed. It was unbearably uncomfortable; the overstimulation forced my body to regulate the sensory input back to normal.

My feeling of unshakable white calm, my pillar, crumbled slightly, singed on the edges by anger. Witchcraft itself was shunned by the superstitious, those who fear the unknown. I ignored my discomfort and rage alike, as I dared not combine my practice with any of the unorthodox variations that could make it easier, like performing rituals nude, because that almost invariably got the practitioner killed at the hands of an angry mob. They completely ignored the fact that upon reentry to the body all sensations, especially touch, are enhanced by an order of magnitude to almost the point of pain.

My monolith cooled, edges glowing, and I managed to regain a measure of white tranquility.

I put the ritual paraphernalia away with shaking hands and replaced the wooden figurine on the cord around my neck. Then I found my journal and a pen and ink. A few notes went down about the day, mostly about the mission I was embarking on, the interesting things I had heard at the tavern, and the trip to the Outworld. I then put it away as well.

Lastly, I took out the Scroll of Words I had received from Zularion. I unrolled it and, in my best calligraphy, penned:

 

Five days expected travel time to Rivolarn. 

Please notify of any news from  Cea Seaular -T.P.

13-17-723 H.E.

 

It might be that a scribe in Marulinople would check the sister scroll and respond, so I waited a few moments. I thought about the mistake I had made spelling Seaular’s name. Although most races would have spelled it with a ‘c’, the Drox maintained that any silibants must be spelled with an ‘s’. It was annoying in the extreme, especially when corresponding with one using conventional mail. Drox notes always read weird.

A response slowly appeared. Directly underneath my words, in neat, tiny script to save as much of the limited parchment as possible, came the reply. Ink sprouted out of the tan surface and swirled as a scribe leagues away wrote:

 

_ Notice received. Report regularly. -Syndicate Palace (henceforth ‘S.P.’) _

_ 13-17-723 High Era _

 

Although I did not especially need to report, I wanted to be sure that the magic parchment functioned as it should. It was deeply ingrained in me to identify and determine the reliability of things out of my control when it comes to achieving a task, and magic was very much so. The connection between the two scrolls was a relatively new magic, tenuous and susceptible to interception or interruption by any accomplished mages inclined to try, and a few fundamental laws of enchanting affected the scroll’s reliability.

Bonding a spell to an item was difficult in proportion to the complexity of the spell, the strength of the spell and the desired number of uses before the spell deteriorated. The complexity of having two pieces of parchment mimic each other in form was so intricate it was mind-numbing to consider. The strength, how much mana the enchantment used each time it was used, was substantial to reach across a large distance, but that was not as outrageous as the intricate nature of the spell's effect. And the life span was until all of the parchment was filled, so an amount of mana was imbued into the scroll and once it was used, or it gradually leaked away, the scroll would become just another bit of parchment. If the spells woven around the scroll unraveled it would become dangerously unstable and the unused raw magic could be released and react unpredictably.

The combination of being insanely complex, substantially strong and, reasonably long lasting for the three qualities of the enchantment made it too precarious to be wholeheartedly relied upon, at least without knowing the enchanter well. Trying to enchant an item with complexity, strength and a long lifespan was simply beyond the possibilities of conventional magic. That was what the scroll came close to attempting, and I trusted no mage on Idroth to be able to do that reliably. No one was that powerful or adept at manipulating arcane energies, with the exception of the occasional paragon or, more likely, god, of which none were currently practicing on Idroth by my knowledge. Magic items of such power were legendary, with tales of them stretching from one end of Idroth to the other, and so rare that I could count all of the known ones on my fingers and toes.

Most average enchanters were unable to create anything more strong or complex than a light spell of about the same potency as a torch, because more than that and it would need constant attention to renew it. That is why most spellcasters usually did not rely on items, but their own skills to produce whatever effect was required by the situation. My charm and my boots were examples of an average enchantment and an above-average enchantment, respectively. Although the fact that I had created my charm myself with witchcraft and not spellcraft was a rather impressive feat. It traded both lifespan and complexity for force. It was simply intended to make a target person unable to speak, which would completely disable novice spellcasters and greatly impede even masters. The lifespan of the enchantment was inconsequential because I could put in the time every day to renew it and keep it ready for use. If I ever needed to meddle in the affairs of wizards, no matter how subtle, a moment without magic meant an arrow through their heart.

I felt the effects of my medicine wearing off. The surge of sharp, analyzing thoughts became more muddled as the magical knowledge and potential drained away, unused. With the nuances of enchanting parading through my head, I went to bed.

As usual, I did not fall asleep immediately, a residue of the medicine on my mind. My thoughts drifted away from magic and to the day’s events, where it randomly it fell on a consolation Zularion had opened our conversation with. He expressed his sympathy for my adopted father's passing.

Merkakch. My white stone pillar of calm melted into a turbulent blue and black sea of sorrow over Merkakch's death. As suddenly as the feeling had washed over me, I started to cry.

After a few moments a warm presence enveloped me, one that reminded me of the smell of a wood fire, and I felt better knowing Chalceadron was always there for me.

When it was over, I fell asleep.

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

I woke several hours later and made use of what utilities there were, then retrieved my pack and went to the front room. It was empty except for a Dwarf behind the bar, whom I assumed to be the barmaid from the night before. I walked up and ordered a small breakfast of Hin bread, then added that I would be leaving and wanted another day’s worth of food in a cloth bag. A scowl spread across the woman's face and I abruptly realized she was much older than the barmaid from the night before.

“You think you're just gonna leave? I don' care about no Dragon, you pay or you don' get anything,  _ Elf _ .”

The hostility was so unexpected that I did not respond for a moment. My self-control waged an unanticipated battle on two fronts, one with my anger and another with the part of me that made it clear this was a perfect opportunity to wreak havoc upon this disrespectful little Dwarf. Self-control won, barely. “Madam, I fully intend to pay. I was thinking I would pay before the meal, instead of after. It is not customary, but I do need to leave soon.”

She stepped away and went back into the kitchen, where her husband Hin presumably worked. A few minutes later the younger Dwarf maiden emerged with a sack full of food and said quietly, “I am sorry for my mother's words. She is... older. You understand. She is not as...”

She trailed off, but I got what she was saying. If an Elf got into a fight most people would consider it a safe bet that the other person had been a Dwarf. Overall Dwarves do not get along with Elves, and to a lesser extent the Fey races of Elven decent, the Humans, Drox and Mer. The inverse is also true. One major reason why is that the Elves' universal magic ability (ha, almost) made it an integral part of Elven culture, while Dwarves detest magic and their culture stressed 'natural' works, particularly when concerning construction and masonry. This tension between the two had lead to many bloody wars, but there had not been one for over four centuries and mostly only older individuals remember the bitter hatred of that time.

I thanked her for the food and left instead of eating in the tavern, my pack over one shoulder and the bag of fresh provisions over the other. With my mind I could sense which direction Chalceadron was in, far outside the village to the south. There were no woods around to sleep in, so he had found the center of a tuft of tall grass to flatten. It took me ten minutes to walk there, but I knew from the disjointed images in his mind that he was asleep and dreaming so I did not mind the walk. Dragons could go a substantial length of time without sleeping compared to mortals, but when they finally did rest they needed it.

When I pushed through the stalks to the clearing he had created in the grass, I unobtrusively sent a stream of pleasant thoughts towards him. Asleep or not, his instincts and acute senses always warned him of anything moving towards him. Only the touch of my mind could put him completely at peace, enough that he did not wake when I entered the rough twenty meter ring of bent plants.

I looked at his slumbering form. His bulk was impressive for his age, more than seven meters long, and lying down he was just shorter than my two meters in height. The dense scales of various sizes that lined his body were mostly a subdued orange. I knew that along the seam where the thin membranes of his wings connected with his back ran a few blurry, uneven streaks of red and purple, but they were concealed beneath his folded wings. He had taken to carefully arranging himself so they did not show unless he was in flight. I had previously asked him why he did that, but he avoided the question.

Walking around to his front, his half-meter wide head came into view resting on top of his right foreleg. Two horns protruded from above his eyes, angled back and aligned with the triangular, spear-tip look of his head. More horns, these ones smaller, projected from behind his jaw in the same manner. His ruddy plates of natural Dragon armor became smaller and thinner around the intricate muscles of his face. I saw the distinctive furrow in the scales that arced along his left cheek, where a rival male’s claw had caught him. The wound was old enough to be fully closed, but recent enough that the weak, grayed scales of scar tissue had yet to grow in.

I sat and ate a modest breakfast from the supplies I had bought, waiting for Chalceadron to wake up. Through our connection I sensed that the smell of food changed his dreams. I caught glimpses, soaring on powerful wings, hunting something from the air. A sense of  _ challenge. It’s a challenge. Prey is using the trees to block, to protect itself. Can’t get it. Get ahead, steer it toward open ground. _

He rolled slightly onto his side, and his exposed foreleg moved to claw the air in frustration. It was without a doubt the most adorable motion a scaly, fire-breathing predator can make, and I could not help but smile.

I moved a bit away to spend some time practicing with my bow, and before long his groggy head poked up out of the green grass sea. He flew off to a stream to drink, and we started on our way again.

The journey was uneventful. The next night it wasn’t too cold, so we slept out on the plains. He said the grasses cushioned the ground nicely, and I slept under his wing for warmth. The night after that it was a barn, rented from an Orc farmer who was willing to quarter a dragon, and we alternated between indoors and outdoors after that. Chalceadron always said he did not mind the smell of barns. With his nose I doubted it, but maybe different things bothered us and he found the smell of slightly moldy hay to be acceptable. It wouldn’t be the first of our differences.

The land changed under us as we traveled, staying high enough to be mistaken for a large bird if anyone happened to look up. The endless plains fell away to the south and we started crossing Darkwood, the homeland of the Drox. We passed over the port city of Lazerne and came in sight of Orlos, capital of the Drox Territories. Rivolarn was at the far northern edge of Darkwood.

When it got late on the fourth day of the journey, still at least a half-day from Rivolarn, we decided not to push through the night. Seeing the Sulos set from dragonback generally made for better a view than from the ground, so I watched fiery Sulos slowly descend. It was becoming increasingly cloudy and where the ground was visible rays of light filtered down through billowing and arching structures of water vapor to the featureless plane below, to form shifting spots of day surrounded by the encroaching night. The hue narrowed from white, to yellow, then orange and lastly a bright red bathed only the tops of the clouds, gray mountains whose pinnacles were engulfed in flames.

After night had firmly taken root and all of the islands of light on the ground below had been swallowed by darkness, we started a swift decline aimed for the closest town. Chalceadron stayed out of sight then, so I hoped to be able to get a real look at the place. There happened to be a lay line caravan parked in the town. While a few workers were moving cargo to and from the line of five smooth, floating metal carriages, two Elves departed from the front car, where passengers would sit. They looked to be heading towards an inn for the night, so I followed. The place might have had a name like Droxwood Carn, or something. I didn’t think to pay attention.

The room I rented was the last one they had. It was small, and the bed lumpy. The food was acceptable, and the Drox tavern maid who brought it was pretty, but what caught me most about the place was that I seemed to be getting a lot of sideways looks. Most places, people would turn when I entered. A cloaked, cowled and armed stranger is usually worth noting. And particularly if they got a good look at my bow; its lengthy span, strong draw, and thin, swirling patterns of matte paint all betrayed the bow's extreme craftsmanship as well as its Elven origin.

But the general interest did not die down like it usually did, and I noticed the other two Elves that had arrived at the inn when I did received the same treatment, along with others from the caravan. It was odd. I had received less attention arriving atop a Dragon. Here walking in and ordering a meal and room earned strangers second looks.

It made me more than a little uncomfortable, so after settling my things I made a point to be unobtrusive. The spot I picked was at a booth near the back of the place. Far from the windows, the low light put me out of sight and out of mind. After half an hour the others in the room seemed to have forgotten me, and were well on their ways to drunken stupors.

I people watched again. If I had not already known I was in the Drox territories, it would have been evident now. It was homogeneously Fey; that is, they were of the Fey races, either Elf, Man, or Drox. Mer are also sometimes included as Fey, but there were none present. Dwarves especially would not have been welcome; racial tensions would have been too much. None of the goblin underclass were present, although that was most likely due to the inn, rather than an absence of them in town. Neither were Orcs, Trolls, Tialkin, or the less populous races in abundance.

From the booth next to mine a few Drox were talking and it caught my ear, “. . . came in with the caravan from the South said ’ll be snoopin’ about on a Dragon. As if we need more Dragons ’round he’ya. Damn Syndicate. Fucker’ll put everyone he’ll talk to in danger. For our sake, hope he knows where not to stick his nose. ‘De Warden’s gonna hear about this, mark my wards, and those Blue Cloaks scare ’ shit outta’ me. Be glad when they head off north.”

“Quiet, Ted. Better to not speak of it at all, eh?”

“True. . . . So, how’s you’ son doin’? Still working at that one bastard’s mill?”

“Yeah. A drink to that! I haven’t talked with the little. . .”

That certainly gave me something to mull over;  _ “said ’ll be snoopin’ about on a Dragon. . . Fucker’ll put everyone he’ll talk to in danger.” _ I saw the ‘Blue Cloaks’ they mentioned, three of them in one of the corners across the room in cowls and cloaks, with midnight blue fabric flowing down their backs. They were nonchalantly looking about, same as I was, and one of them was nonchalantly looking in my direction.

The conviction in the Drox’s voice chilled me. If I might be putting people in danger, then I shouldn’t be here. I reached out with my mind for Chalceadron and told him to expect me soon. I filled him in with the few details of what I had heard while I waited for a few more moments.

Two of the Blue Cloaks got up as I left, an action which scared the shit out of me as much as these Blue Cloaks had scared the Drox I’d overheard. Once I was out the door I disappeared into the shadows. I felt my boots heat up as their enchantment activated and stopped a spell of some sort, almost certainly for tracking. But it ended quickly and they were far behind me when I met with Chalceadron in the woods. We took to the air immediately.

_ “What the fuck was that about?” _

 

**.** **.** **.**

 

_ “Be extra careful. They probably have watches set for Solovey. We don’t want to get shot down, or spotted and alert people we’re here,” _ I said as we neared Rivolarn.

_ “I don’t smell anything around, but I’ll cast a concealment spell anyway.”  _ “Illusorous Draconé,” Chalceadron growled. The words were Márra Sañul, the language of magic. _ “Are you sure about this? Is it really necessary for you to go alone?” _

His spell took effect and he and I faded from view. The shine of his bulky amber hide dulled and became translucent, as did I. From the ground, a minor refraction of the night sky and a wisp of wind would be the only sign of our passage.

_ “Aye, I’m sure. Someone does not want a Dragon Rider asking questions, and those who are asked might be put in danger. That’s what I heard. Also, those Blue Cloaked guys freaked me out. We need to be discreet in finding Solovey, and another Dragon lumbering around the village is not discreet.” _

_ “. . . Fine, but I do not like this. If Solovey is near, I can’t do anything to keep him from smelling me. There’s Rivolarn. I’ll let you down here. Hold on.” _

He was following a break in the trees that showed where a lay line cut North toward Rivolarn through what seemed like endless Darkwood maples. He circled a stretch of it a few times to make certain no one was taking a midnight stroll, and a moment later we were diving beneath the sea of maroon leaves.

Chalceadron was on the ground just long enough for me to dismount with my pack. With a short four-legged sprint he took off again. The soft sound of his wings faded into the still of the night. He would find somewhere nearby to lay low until I figured out what was going on.

The blackness was almost menacing. A lunar turn had just passed; only starlight shone through the deep red leaves. There were many stories of the forest that the Drox called home, and what they lacked in believability they made up for with foreboding. Wolves and shadowcats were likely the least dangerous creatures lurking through them. Yet despite all that, being enshrouded in the darkness gave me comfort, confidence. There might be things that went bump in the night, but I was not the least of them.

It took me just long enough for my pack to start digging into my shoulders before I reached the village. It was much the same as any other hamlet, a score of buildings surrounded by fields, but the houses and shops were taller than those in the plains and made of Darkwood’s distinctive ebony, rather than lesser woods. Rivolarn happened to be built in the shadows of the Misericade Mountains, and their silhouettes to the North and West blocked part of the Magus constellation. Similarly, Scytheclaw, the Dragon constellation that chased the fiery Outworld beyond the horizon every dusk, was not visible.

I identified a sleepy inn by the rickety stables that branched off the building and the barstool carved in sharp relief underneath its lantern. The tavernkeep was sleeping against the bar when I entered, and I woke him to rent one of the rooms. He gave me a scowl as if no one had ever come in needing a room this late. Rivolarn was not on a frequently travelled road; maybe no one ever had.

Like every night I took two drops of my medicine. Then I meditated, finding my place of calm and peace. I formed my white monolith in my mind; strong, unchanging, unmovable. I renewed the anti-magic enchantments on my Tialox figurine. I did not make a trip to the Outworld this time, since I had just gone recently and was too tired.

The quick ritual went smoothly up until the end. As always, when I returned to the world my senses hit me like being swiped by a dragon's tail. I ignored the bumps that rose across my skin and the idd hue of ordinary objects until they went away.

After that I scribbled into my journal and used the Scroll of Words to report to Marulinople, and finally went to bed. As I lay down trying to sleep, however, my thoughts were not off enjoying themselves, parading through my vain studies of arcane laws. They were on how the Sulos these people knew Chalceadron and I were coming, and who those Blue Cloaks had been. I had grabbed a few hours of sleep on Chalceadron’s back, I only managed another two hours of rest before the dawn got me.


End file.
